Galatea, so sculpted in my dreams,
Fit for gems of Phaeton's sisters' tears,
My mind would fill with thoughts flowing like streams
For her, which by the Styx, my heart now swears;
If coldness be the hallmark of her charms,
She is by choice, a statue though alive,
In passion nil, with touch that never warms,
As renderings of virtue would deprive;
Should Aphrodite grant a wish fulfilled,
As what by luck Pygmalion once achieved,
Nothing could make this poor dreamer get thrilled,
Than have the truth of what his heart believed;
.....That she could stir awake for his relief,
.....With not an amber tear for love in grief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem